


Loving Hell

by Andrithir



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Memoirs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 21:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6725167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andrithir/pseuds/Andrithir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every veteran will tell you after the first shot is fired, the only thing that matters is you and your buddies. Nothing else. Your family, your nation, politics, whatever, none of that matters. They'll tell you that war is hell, it humiliates you, degrades you, and brings out the best and worst in you. But what they don't tell you, is that deep down, you'll grow to love war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loving Hell

**_Loving Hell_ ** **by Langley Chen**

**…**

_“War is a terrible thing. It humiliates, degrades us, turns us into monsters, and yet deep down, we revel in its madness, we revel in its lethal addiction.”_

**…**

There’s something haunting about war… something so hauntingly captivating about its hideous beauty. From an early age, we’re taught that war is terrible. Some would argue that it’s a necessary evil, others say it has no purpose.

We all remember that one song from the 1970s, or 60s. As a kid, I hummed that tune a lot, but as I grew older, I just shook my head at how morally conscious that song tries to be. Whoever wrote that song has no understanding of human nature.

War is a necessary evil, the final desperate act. Without war, we wouldn’t be here today – ironically. In a time where man is master over the environment, the evolutionary imperative is now assumed by war. We want to believe that war is not a natural act; that it is inhumane, but it is in human nature to find conflict as much as it is to find cooperation.

For you see, we may preach peace, we may abhor war, but there’s something inside us that revels in it. There’s something inside us that sees the beauty of war. We can see it in history, how art, war, and ideology are inextricably linked together. The Medieval time periods and the renaissance gave us intricate designs of ornate weapons and armour. Then the Age of Reason allowed us the pomp of military uniforms, and finally the modern age where the ornate was regulated to ceremonial duties while the utilitarian took over. In that, we saw a different kind of beauty emerge; the precision of machinery.

I want to make something clear here, I did not join up out of some naïve idea that I would be going on an adventure. I was aware of what I was signing up for… but even then, I didn’t quite know.

I volunteered out of a sense that I would be part of something bigger and greater than me. This I can tell everyone I meet, from my mother, to the shrink, and to the new recruit. I can even tell them all how scared I was, but what I can’t tell them is how much _fun_ it was. Don’t get me wrong, I lived with the fear of death over my head every time I was deployed, but I loved my work. I loved it, and most would believe I’m talking about serving my nation, and treating the weak. However, it’s not just that, it’s the fighting as well – the thrill of combat, but I can’t repeat that to anyone.

You ask most if not all of those who have served, and make them be brutally honest with themselves, I’d say they would admit that deep down, they love the action to. Some people would argue that I was fighting the Covenant, so my “evolutionary racial and tribalism tendency kicked in” to make it easier for me to fight. What if I told you I fought both Innies and Covenant? What if I told you I wasn’t the one doing the hunting? What if I told you I loved the fighting? Now know this, I served in the Air Force Medical Air Corp, and the Medical Airborne Rescue Service as an Emergency Physician.

I’ll tell you straight off the bat that I am first and foremost a Doctor, my Hippocratic Oath is sacred above all else. It is my duty to protect life whenever I am called upon, regardless of whom that person is, I will do my absolute best to save them. It’s pretty black and white, but war isn’t like that.

War changes you; it gives you horrible memories for you to live with, but for most who have served it has given us something else. In the fires of war, camaraderie is forged amongst those who are willing to stand and endure. I can’t really describe that bond in words, calling it love would be an understatement.

The Human-Covenant War – in my opinion – is the most horrific war in recorded history, but then again, being rushed by waves of Grunts is nothing like a fanatical human wave. I wish I could say I was never on the receiving end of a human charge… but I was.

It’s easier to face down a horde of Grunts, than it is with kids armed with ageing chain guns.

I wish I didn’t know that, I was still ignorant of that, but I’m not.

I’m a doctor by trade. I went to medschool on a UNSC sponsorship. I’m not supposed to be on the frontlines. Not that it mattered. There are no frontlines when the Covenant comes knocking. I don’t know how, but I survived Ponte.

There was Innie activity around where I was deployed. The FOB was safe with all the drones and anti-missile defences, but when you step out of the dome, you were in their backyard. They’d usually try to hit us when we’d reach an outlying town to perform aid work. Probably plant an IED on the side of the road, or drive a car right up to us and detonate.

Sometimes, they’d just grab a body, usually a kid and rig it up with explosives. Rarely did that hurt anyone of our people, let alone kill anyone, but it took a toll. Seeing a kid crying and begging for help, it gets something inside you going. You want to go help, but you can’t. You can’t risk your life just in case it’s a trap.

You have to wait for an EOD to give the all clear, and for the grunts to secure the perimeter before you go in and save the kid. There are always snipers waiting to take a pot shot at you.

Sometimes, all of this became too much for people. This one guard, he’d lost his CO to a sniper, and a buddy to a kid IED, he ended up shooting the kid, right in plain sight. EOD later confirmed that the kid was an IED, but the locals didn’t care. They stood in wait outside of the dome border, and hurled rocks at us. We were safe and all inside our MRAPs, but you could just feel the hatred in the air, you could almost grab on to it.

I don’t know what happened to the guard, I think he was rotated home for eval. First time I saw someone snap.

It was a day of firsts for me, really. The first day I would see one of our own die right in front of me.

The defence grid was sabotaged, leaving a section vulnerable to missile fire. Innies must’ve hurled a few dozen mortar and arty shells at us, and a few of them got through. I was on my way to the chow hall when a shell landed on the women’s bathroom.

I’ll never forget the sight of a naked woman, missing half her leg with her guts spilling out, crawling towards me. I tried to help her. Held her in my arms as she clung on to me. I think deep down we both knew that she wasn’t going to make it. She tried to say something to me, but I couldn’t hear her past blood, and there too many shells exploding over my head.

She died right there in my arms, covered in her own blood, shit and piss. I’ve smelt death before, but nothing quite like this, there’s just something about that stench coming from someone you see every day.

I think it was then that it really hit me. We weren’t on Ponte to help people, we were there to fight.

The higher ups started bringing in more troops, more specialists, and more equipment. They wanted the Innies suppressed so we could start bringing in the engineers to rebuild. The patrols I went out on got even further and further away from the FOB.

Ponte used to be a beautiful place. Sweeping vistas, with chateaus and villas. Vineyards that made some of the best wine I’ve tasted, and cattle ranches that produced the caviar of steaks. Then the Innies managed to gain a foothold on the planet. Businesses were shipped off world, leaving behind a jobless people to deal with mass refugees.

The city I was stationed in was Dale, the planet’s capital. Its metropolitan area was bombed to hell, but we still held that part. Suburbia’s the most dangerous place to go through until you reach tent fields. Then once you’re out of the tent fields, you’re in the wild-wild west.

It’s a mess out there. One moment I was helping a child, the next, I would be taking cover behind a car because the Innies decided to come out and play. At Le Champs Winery, the Innies managed to surround us and cut us off for eight hours. I’d barely gotten enough sleep the night before because of the mortars, and now they were raining arty on us. Where did they even get that ordinance? God I hate the blackmarket.

Our ETAC called in airstrikes after airstirkes. Tracer fire would light the night, and bombs would shake the ground in a deafening roar. I remember hearing one of the soldiers laugh in pure delight, screaming “die fuckers!” I don’t blame him. No one did. The Innies came at us with anything they could get their hands on; machetes, axes, hunting rifles, JOTUNs… you name it.

They managed to evict us from the Winery, and so we had to leapfrog it to the town of Eastfield. We lost a lot of people to IEDs on the way in, but eventually we got into Eastfield. Had to clear each house out, room by room, and secure the civilians. We lost even more people because some kids wanted to be a hero.

It was a fucking massacre.

At some point, we ran out of flashbangs and started using frags. I didn’t even realise I was kneeling in a baby’s remains because of how heavy the fighting was. I must’ve burned through a hundred rounds, but no confirmed kills. It was just too chaotic to even tell.

When we were in the town, the Innies began to use the sewers to get in, negating our fire support. So it was just a slugging match until a response force could be sent to pull us out. We were the meat grinders, the better fighters, but we were getting exhausted. Troops were missing shots, or not reacting fast enough. We were giving ground to these voodoo kids.

On the eleventh hour, an armoured convoy broke through to us. I’d been so busy fighting and taking care of the wounded, I didn’t even know that there had been an uprising throughout all of tent cities – didn’t have time to ask. That was why it took so damn long – at least we had air support.

The fighting was over by noon the next day. ETAC handed me a bottle of cider he found. I downed the most of it because I was so thirsty. It was also a bad idea since I wasn’t a drinker, and I had nothing to eat for the past 20 hours.

I remember seeing the CO’s (Sanders) face as he looked out across the carnage of broken buildings and torn bodies. The smell of burnt flesh hung in the air like the plague, mixed with faeces and urine. There was a smile on his face, not a grim one, just one of satisfaction.

He turned to me, gave me that grin, and I returned in kind. I shook his hand and laughed, then gave him what was left of my cider. I had divorced myself from the crucial emotion of empathy that had motivated me to become a physician in order to stand in victory amongst the dead. We’d survived. We outlasted the human waves. Amongst the charred and shredded bodies, we were still here. We saw a unique and tragic beauty of the grim nature of our duty. We were the demons that carried out the wishes of the devil, we were the feared monsters in the dark, and we were unstoppable. More importantly, we too gave the devil its dues, and bloodied those who wished us harm.

I’d never felt so more alive – and little did I know that I would come to love war, to forever chase this euphoric high because nothing else would ever compare. But I didn’t get out scot free. They say that most servicemen and women shit or piss their pants on the first time in combat. That never happened to me; instead I was constipated and bloated for days on end.

For me, Ponte was 30% boredom, 50% hospital shifts, and 20% field work. During that time spent out in the field, just 0.1% is spent in a frenzied adrenaline high while being shot at.

But when the Covenant came, it was all about running. It didn’t matter what branch you were in, you got the same bad chow, and a rock for a pillow.

I was with a few MARS when the Covenant burned through the Navy. Garrison Commander gave the evacuation order for all specialist personnel to get off planet side, and that meant I had to get off world ASAP. I was in a Pelican when the order came in. We’d just lifted off from a town, and when I looked back I felt like absolute shit. We were abandoning these people.

Everyone on Ponte was already dead, but I had refused to believe it at the time. It’s my first tour, and I was stupid enough to think that there would be reinforcements coming to save us. Maybe if it had been in the early years of the War, some help might’ve come, but not this far in.

I remember the air being choked with ash and smoke, fires spreading across the meadows, and buildings reduced to slag.

Not a word was spoken on the trip. Everyone was quiet. COMs were off, the entire Pelican went dark, and we escaped.

Cortez, he’d been on a few tours against the Covenant, so what he did was that he flew to Dale, straight towards what was left of the space elevator. The Covenant had taken it out, bringing down a few thousand tons of composites onto the city.

We’d stayed low, flying below the roofline to hide from Covenant air. You see, you’re not supposed to fly below the roofline because you could fly into a building or be hit by some guy with an RPG. But this was the Covenant, what other option was there?

Cortez just gunned it. I think we all nearly passed out from the amount of G’s pulled. He weaved us in and out of the wreckage of the space elevator. These large chunks of material served as a shield for us, and against all odds, we were picked up by a Prowler.

After Ponte was glassed, I was rotated back home, and I can tell you that I was not ready for it. Most of the people I served with didn’t make it. Never heard from Sanders again and just recently I found out that three people I knew had committed suicide.

Vets tell you that going home is the hardest thing, that going back to your normal life and pretending that everything is fine, is the toughest thing you’ll ever do. I prepared myself for that, told myself that civies back home are ignorant in their ivory towers.

I just wasn’t prepared for how ignorant everyone was. People think they know me, they think they know what I’m going through. They don’t. Fuck them. How are they supposed to know what it’s like to see your friend help a kid, only to be blown up by a bomb in the kid’s guts? How the fuck are people supposed to understand that working in a hospital makes you a ripe target? How do you tell them that the Innies are still trying to kill you?

How do you tell people that you relive the war every single fucking day? How do you tell them to stop treating you like a fucking glass statue that needs to be in bubble wrap? They don’t know shit, but they think they do because they watched that one movie.

Is it too hard to be left alone? These people don’t understand, and when you try to explain, they give you that look of disappointment and pity. I don’t want that. I just want to be left alone. I don’t want some entitled shit make a post about “thank you for your service” or some other moronic hashtag. Just a “welcome home” would be nice, because what the fuck are they thanking me for? They don’t know what I’ve done, what I’ve seen. I know that sounds arrogant, but a thank you doesn’t bring my friend back, a thank you doesn’t make the day easier. A “thank you” just makes you sound like a morally conscious wanker jerking off at how upstanding you are. It’s almost as bad as those who call us baby killers. If people wanted to help, to show their appreciation, send care packages.

There’s nothing like receiving a box filled with candy, some supermarket canned food, and a little well-wishing card. I know what I said about people who say “thank you”, but those are just words. Care packages are real, they remind us a bit of home, and break us out of boredom.

Whenever a package comes in, it doesn’t matter if it’s addressed to us. Just so long as someone gets one, it makes us all happy. It lets us know that someone back at home is thinking about us, and hopes that they’ve made our day a bit easier.

However, when someone just walks up and says “thank you”, when some politician in New York stands on a podium and says “thank you”, it rings hollow. It comes across as disingenuous. It bothered me a lot. It angered me.

So at home, I just smiled and kept everything in. I said “you’re welcome” to anyone who said “thank you for your service”, and kept my mouth shut when someone waves a pamphlet in my face about the next social justice issue, or a new hashtag that trends on social media.

It’s not worth arguing against these people. They would rather complain about some social justice drivel while kids are being roasted over the campfire.  _Oh what’s that? That band broke up?_ Well I don’t care, why are you so upset over that shit? Don’t answer, I know exactly why, and it’s pathetic.  _What’s that? Asking where someone is from is a power play?_  Bullshit!  _What’s that? Being specific about grammar is racist and elitist?_  Well fuck you too for allowing mediocrity!

This is what I saw when I got home; a bunch of entitled overeducated brats complaining about trivial issues as if they were the most trying causes of our time. We were on the receiving end of genocide, and people back at home were arguing over whether or not to take a question out of an exam because it caused emotional stress.

I guess you had to hand it to Section II, they know how to run a story. They know how to lull everyone into a false sense of security.

Only two months Earthside, I had enough and I requested a transfer back into deployment. Naturally, the request was declined, but I was allowed to advance in training. I took the opportunity, went into the Medical Airborne Rescue Service Selection and Assessment Program with Baron (my Pelican Pilot cousin), which kept me out of trouble for about two years and made new friends.

Training was tough, but I felt right back at home. No more stupid questions, no more people treating you like an invalid, no more pity looks.

One week after I graduated, I was shipped out to Salvar – guess they were really desperate on replacements. I didn’t care though, I was happy and scared to be going back. Baron on the other hand, he was a bit eager for some action. He’d spent his first tour flying logistics and the occasional combat drop. Salvar was a quiet place, little to no Innie activity compared to Ponte.

It would’ve been nice if Baron and I were deployed together, but when it comes to specialists, you’re posted rotated on an individual basis. The idea is to not have any rookie units, but rather the seasoned vets training the newer guys. Still, I kept in regular contact with other class graduates – 60 guys, 4 of them are physicians.

I wish I could say I was working in field hospitals, safe and sound, but I didn't. I was out with Spec Ops on long range patrols, visiting far flung villages. And then there was the Covenant. One minute you’re pulling a mangled body from a stretcher, the next second, you’re using that body as a meat shield. Think the woman’s name was Sanderson or something. She was from Mars.

That’s what we’d been reduced to; using our own dead as sandbags.

The UNSC lost its steam a long time ago, and every battle was just a delaying action. That much was certain. There were no campaigns to retake a system, just fall back and regroup at another, and wait for the Covenant to come. At least the Innie attacks became few and far in between. The Covenant was relentless.

Salvar was lost, and we retreated to Du Hoc, the Du Hoc was lost, so we retreated to New Venice.

After New Venice had fallen, we retreated to Florence III. Linked up with a few guys I met during training. We were ordered to set up a field hospital at the Carver Wells Spaceport that had been bombed by the Insurrectionists. The attack had been devastating, and crippled the planet’s ability to get people off world. The recent shortage wasn’t helping either, and soon we were dealing with hunger.

About a month in, and the Covenant came. I’d been so sure that they’d hit Florence after New Venice, but they’d found Langford first. Whoever was the leader of this lot, he was a smart one. His forces came in, knocked out our communications network and targeted our spaceports before even bringing in his capital ships within range of the MACs.

I was in triage when they hit the spaceport. The blast knocked me unconscious, and when I came to, everybody was dead or dying, or being eaten by the Grunts and Jackals. By sheer dumb luck, a hospital bed had covered me from them. So I unholstered my pistol, flicked the safeties off and engaged.

My heart was pounding, adrenaline was pumping, and my body burned. I emptied the entire mag into them, two in the chest and one in the head. The Grunt was the first to go since their methane packs liked to explode, and since my sidearm was packing High-Ex Incendiary, the little bastard went up in a cloud of gore – my first confirmed kill.

With the blast having knocked the two Jackals off balanced, they were easy to mop up.

I told my parents about this moment, to them, this was my first kill. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t though; I think I might’ve knocked off a few Innies on Ponte. But to my parents, they believed I should’ve played dead. And the thing is, I could’ve. For some reason, I wasn’t gripped by the fear to cower and hide. Never pissed myself, but was constipated for days on end. At my most vulnerable moment, I decided to engage.

Isolation is a powerful fear. Most will cower and won’t fight, but those that do fight, don’t feel alone. That’s why units with great COs generally make it through. The troops are inspired; they think as one, they fight together; they will face death for each other.

I didn’t have that. I was alone, and I was afraid.

After the adrenaline wore off, my breath was unsteady, and my thigh twitched. I kept on repeating the mantra from a poem, “Do not go gentle into that good night, rage, rage, against the dying of the light.”

I made my way to the makeshift armoury, where I found Loak and Samson torn to ribbons. The gear was all there, so I took everything I needed and ran.

Out on the streets, I linked up with a few Marines – didn’t even get a chance to learn their names. I think one was named, Elias, and another was Dorme. Don’t know about the rest. Not that it mattered. Banshee came in and took out five of them before we even made it down the block. Two more were picked off by snipers, and the last guy kept up with me until we were jumped by a Grunt.

Plasma grenade took out my legs, reduced both of them to a smouldering stump. It hurt at first, but then it stopped. The nerves were cauterised, and I was left with a strange numbness. I didn’t know what happened to the last Marine, but he wasn’t there when I came too.

I thought right then and there that I was going to die, either kicking and screaming covered in shit, piss and blood, or just stop being  _there_  all together. Either way, I prepared myself that I wasn’t going to get out.

Attaching a suppressor to my carbine, I prepped myself for the end. I bowed my head and said every prayer that I’d learnt in religious studies. I’d been an agnostic my whole life, and in that very final moment, I prayed and hoped that there would be something after this. That I would see my friends once more.

Then out of pure dumb luck, I was found by an ODST, Private Sarah Palmer. She dragged me through mud and guts just to get me to safety. We lasted for about three weeks out there. Not much action, but stressful. Every day we’d have to find a new hole, and probably get a few hours’ sleep. Sometimes we’d get none at all. I’d never felt so damn helpless in my life. After the adrenaline had worn off, my hands would be shaking if I wasn’t doing anything with them.

I couldn’t imagine it was any easier of Palmer. It was her first outing as an ODST, and I’m pretty sure she just wanted to leave me. I even told her to. But she stayed. I think she believed that we were already dead, and it was just better to die in friendly company, than alone.

After a week of being together, Palmer pulled us to the forests. We were out of water, and starving. We ate whatever we could find, leaves, ferns, berries, roots. It wasn’t enough, but it was better than nothing. Of course on the seventh day a fever began to set in. Without meds or fresh dressing, the cauterised meat was going sceptic. Pretty sure I was going to die right then and there. Somehow, Palmer kept me alive.

Two weeks in, we came across a group of survivors. They were civies big on survivalist stuff. You know, TAC gear, weapons – whole lot.

I’ve thrown shade at these people, called them amateurs, but when Palmer and I found them. We were jumping for joy – well, Palmer was. I was delirious, slipping in and out of consciousness. Those people nursed me back to health as best as they could, and then we waited, and waited.

Then, the Covenant glassed the planet. We were deep in the mines when it happened. The AC units did a great job of keeping us alive. We were down there for six months until a rescue party came along and pulled us out. It was like I had a guardian angel or something.

When were pulled out, I learned that the Covenant only partially glassed the planet before moving on. They found Juarez, and that was tough nut for them, so they pulled in everything they got, which gave us a chance to escape.

I spent the next month in a hospital on Mitsu, walking around on prosthetics and helping out while they grew me new legs. Mitsu was nice, lovely beaches, beautiful rainforests, very quiet, very peaceful. It was a welcomed change from getting shot at all day, gave me time to think and gather my thoughts. But working in the hospital also kept me distracted, stopped me from getting bored. It wasn’t the same as being deployed, but it was good enough to stop me going insane.

Of course, since I was injured, my family was notified. I tried to get the notification rescinded, but protocol is protocol, and a few months later while I was going through physical therapy, I received a datapacket from my parents and sister. They wanted me to come home.

 Second time back, I learnt that the government had implemented a surveillance program. As always, someone exposed it, and then there was a huge debate about it. It was like history repeating itself again. We’re told time and time again, that these programs are to protect us, to find the dissidents, the terrorists who wish to do us harm. I used to believe that. I argued against the tinfoils that the government wasn’t filled with the illuminati, but regular everyday people hoping to do what’s right.

I stopped believing in that fairy tale when politicians supported speech codes on university campuses. I stopped believing in the government, because they were filled with flawed and egotistical people – just like regular folk.

There were demonstrations, protests, but riots were quickly put down. Had I been younger I might’ve joined them, but I didn’t. Because a lot of those kids in the protests were there because they didn’t want their dicks and tits stored on some database that are not their phones.

 _Idiots_ , all of them.

My forbearers didn’t die just so some brat could take nudes. I didn’t spend months in hell just so some ungrateful shit could sext.

My fear of the surveillance program is that it could be abused. I may not be a big fan of reporters, but if it wasn’t for them, we’d be bent over backwards for big brother. Of course my parents didn’t see eye to eye with me on that. They even said that I should be in support of this system because I’ve seen firsthand what the Innies do. The gall.

Family tried to be there, but they didn’t want to know what I went through. Mum and Liz would cry, Dad would go someone where quiet to grieve. Extended family were sort of the same, they kept their distance but tried to be close at the same time. I’d been gone for a while, people had moved on. I missed a few weddings and birthday showers, but I wasn’t forgotten. Family still talked about me, wished that I would get home safe, the regular stuff. As welcoming as they tried to make me feel, I knew I was an outsider the first time I got back. They’ve gotten on with their lives, matured a little, had kids, while I changed. I knew that I wasn’t the same when I got back, never will be.

Liz was engaged, and as much as I hated sitting around while there was a fight going on, mum expected me to be there for Liz’s wedding. I gave a hint that I wanted to go back, and both mum and dad exploded. They were ranting and raving at how my deployments had changed me, how I kept risking my life, and how I had a death wish. They raged at how fruitless the war was, and that the best we could do was enjoy our final years.

I was angry. Though in hindsight, they’d already lost Junjie at Corbulo. I guess losing another child would be too much for them. Though at the time, I was hurt about they said, because there was some truth to it. I was putting myself back in the line of fire, for an adrenaline rush – but more importantly for my brothers and sisters in arms. It didn’t feel right that I sit around, while there were people out there dying to keep us safe, and my parents didn’t want me to be one of them.

I left the house and drove off. I was so tempted to sign up for another tour. I put in a request, but like the first time, it was denied. They said I needed time off to recover. Dad might’ve had something to do with that, he knows people in the UNSC, probably spun some kind of story to say that I was unstable and unfit for combat.

So what did I do? I worked in a hospital, but this is Earth. It’s just medical check-ups, cancer treatment, and the occasional cosmetic surgery. It was so goddamn boring. I felt useless, more so even when I learned a friend of mine, Zhao was shipping out with the 105th. I was restless. I missed the weight of having a gun on me, I missed going to sleep without one in reach.

Then one day, I received a notification that I was going to be deployed again. I felt so relieved and happy that I was going back. Though at the time, I refused to say that I was becoming addicted to war. I justified that I still got scared shitless, that my hands would shake whenever I ran through a storm of arty. You see, I always thought lovers of war were people who became reckless Rambo types who got a thrill from killing.

Family wasn’t too happy when they learned I was going to be shipped off again.

There were Innes on Irene; one was placed under my care. She was probably seventeen, and I could see the hatred in her eyes when they brought her in. It took two ODSTs in exoskeletons to keep her under control; she’d been pumped with a cocktail of rumble drugs and some other stabilising compound which kept her alive for so long. But she was aggressive, violent – that wasn’t to say she wasn’t before she took the cocktail.

Late one night, she managed to break free, snapped a nurse’s neck, and killed Doctor Imaha with a barrage of punches. The sound her fists made was sickening. It was like flesh exploding on flesh.

Without any weapons in reach, I crash tackled her. Ended up breaking her neck and splitting her skull open. Then the smell of blood and brains hit me, followed by faeces and urine. The first thought that entered my head was, “gotcha, bitch.” I didn’t feel regret or remorse that I killed someone who was under my charge.

A few days later, the Covenant came.

I killed two dozen Grunts, three Jackals, a Brute, and a Hunter. Though to be fair, I was manning a Gauss Cannon. One round was all it took to turn the Chieftain into pulp and twisted metal. As for the Hunter, that was a lucky shot on my part; a bump in the road made me miss centre mass and hit the head instead. I still remember the euphoric relief and joy that I felt when I made those kills. That feeling of power and victory is addictive. You see in my mind, I used this weapon, this culmination of thousands of years of human warfare, to overcome and kill two things that were a threat to my life and the lives of the people alongside me. Despite how incredibly advance this piece of military hardware was in comparison to a poleaxe, it still gave that primal feeling power whenever it roared.

We made it to a spaceport, just the three of us, me, an ODST named Stump, and an Airborne Intelligence Trooper named Waltz. The Hog had run out of fuel, so we made our way through the terminal on foot. The stench inside was godawful, people were dead or dying left, right and centre. Children were pulpy smears on the tiles, crushed in the human stampede as people scrambled towards the escape shuttles.

Even the police who stood guard were killed, some had been crushed, and others had been shot.

I remember running through across the catwalks where we came across a group of survivors. They’d all just huddled together, waiting to die, listening to the sound of each other’s laboured breathings. I remember them looking at me, hoping that I would do something, but knowing that there was nothing that I could do.

So I just gave them a cop’s sidearm with a few extra mags, and left.

I wanted to stay there with them and fight to the end, but the truth is, glorious last stands are just a Hollywood fallacy. You’re either hacked to death slowly, or it hits you right out of nowhere. These people were going to die long before any Covenant patrol would find them.

We continued north from the spaceport for another two hours before we were picked up by an ONI Greyhawk. On the ride out, I found my leg shaking uncontrollably and tears stinging my eyes. I fucking failed, and I fucking hated this war.

When I returned home, I just didn’t care. I but on a brave face, let everyone know it was all okay. But it was getting so hard to get out of bed and get on with the day. My family was thrilled to see me. I’d made it back a week out before the wedding. I was tempted not to go, but Liz was so happy that I was back home, so I went. The rift between me and my parents never quite healed, but we moved past it for Liz’s sake. It was her special day after all.

The ceremony was nice, and the reception was even better. They got this venue by the seaside in the middle of autumn, so the weather was still warm enough to wear a dress, but cool enough to wear a suit.

I didn’t know much about the groom, apparently he met Liz through a mutual friend and they hit it off. So when it was my turn to give a speech, I just gave the cliché of “welcome to the family” and whished them all the best. I didn’t even bother with the part about gaining another brother.

A lot of family friends were there too, and a lot of them asked how I was, what I was up to. Apparently not many of them knew that ‘d been in combat, which was nice. They didn’t treat me like some invalid, and some of the more intellectual ones talked about engineering marvels with me, or the latest medical breakthroughs.

In that one night, I felt normal and more at home than I had ever been planetside. Still, Baron and I sneaked off somewhere quiet to just to talk without judgement. We were later joined by the groom’s father, a retired Colonel in the Marines. He had this gentle wisdom about him, and talking to him was like knowing that there was someone out there who truly knew what we went through, and cared about us.

At the time, I hadn’t appreciated the full gravity of his words, but he said, “You’ll never find peace until you accept what you truly are.”

The following day the family had a barbeque at the beach house, Baron was already being shipped off to Reach, and I was the only person there wearing a collar shirt, pants, and shoes. I just felt too naked with anything less, and there were also the scars I wasn’t too keen on showing. People say scars are attractive – not these ones. My legs are jagged messes, and my left side has a patch of fibrosis. Even though I was safe, I still felt exposed. I missed the weight of the armour, the sense of having a gun near me. Every so often, I’d find my hand drifting to where my holster should be. Even though I was surrounded by family, I never felt more alone.

Liz then walks up from the sand and joins me on the porch. She looks at my clothes, and then looks at where my scars would be.

She asked me, “Why do you do it, Lang?”

I answered with, “Because there are people out there still fighting.”

Then she said something to me no one has ever said before. “You’ve done enough. It’s time to leave.”

I didn’t say anything, because I knew exactly what was going to happen to me if I left the military. You see, being in defence will be the best and worst years of your life. The bad memories pile up, waiting for that one moment of down time where it’ll all come crashing down. You always pay for it, but it’s all on credit. When you leave, it’s payday, and every single messed up shit you’ve seen and done comes back to haunt you.

After two and a half tours, I definitely had my baggage. I wasn’t ready to deal with it, I wasn’t ready to face what I had become – not when there was still plenty of fighting to go around.

We’ve been conditioned to abhor war, but respect those who fight in them. We’ve been conditioned to believe that no good can come of war. We’ve been taught to think that anyone who comes back from war is a broken PTSD mess. But the one thing they never teach us; is some of us end up liking war a little too much. At some point, the synthetic touch of a gun is more seductive than the most sensual being. At some point, the beauty of precision mechanics is far more appealing than the lines of a human.

How do I tell my family that when I wasn’t yet ready to admit that to myself? Public perception of people who have the like in war, immediately switches to war junkies who have the love of the kill. People don’t understand that it’s more complicated than that.

I never expected to be one of those people, even when I signed up to do patrols. I never expected to kill anyone. I joined because I wanted to save lives.

After my week of leave was over, I continued my tour on Earth, posted to Shanghai. Caught up with a few more friends before Zhao was shipped out, learned that some had bought it on Firenze, and Constantinople II. At MARSSAP, my class had 250 candidates at the start; we finished with 60 in 2548. By 2552, there were 30 of us left. Sommers, an emergency physician I had trained with, he was killed in an Innie IED attack on Urkesh a few days before Liz’s wedding.

A few weeks later, Baron came to see me at the Shanghai Garrison. That was when I learned Reach had fallen. A cancer had developed on one of my legs, so I was in surgery when the news came. But Reach had fallen, and so too did three more from MARSSAP Class of 2548.

Two days after that, Zhao was stationed on Earth at the Beijing Garrison.

Unsurprisingly, the fall of Reach wasn’t given that much coverage on the news. It wouldn’t have done that much good anyway. Regardless, I told my family to get off world, told them to go to Klaussberg in the mid colonies down spin from Earth. Safest place they could be.

The moment I received a text that they had left the planet, I breathed a sigh of relief. My family was going to be safe, they were going to live to see another day.

When the Covenant hit Earth, they hit us hard. I spent the next week living in the sewers and ruin of Shanghai, tying to survive and regroup. The Covenant had concentrated their attacks at the equator where most of the megacities were, and focused on Africa, leaving their light capital ships to deal with other cities.

That meant little to no glassing for us, and allowed us to hold out longer. Groundside MAC guns helped hold off the Covenant fleet and give us a fighting chance. Baron and I did the best we could to rally the survivors and guide them to safety. But there were just so many civilians and Covies, and not enough troops. Shanghai Garrison fell within a week. The people that were left, we fought a staggered leapfrog to Beijing – which had only seen light skirmishes.

We met Zhao in Shandong, with a mechanised battalion, before retreating back to Beijing. The Covenant was always hot on our heels, biting at us with air strikes and raids. But we held firm. This was our home turf with countless tons of buildings just lying around ready to be dropped.

The Brutes, being the dumb apes they were, still sent waves and waves of troops at us. Hunters, Wraiths, Scarabs, they threw the whole lot at us. And each time, we’d lure them into a building, and then brought the whole thing down.

From Shandong all the way to Beijing we dropped towers on them, and the still kept on coming. There was just so many of them.

Then one day, we received word that the Elites had broken away from the Covenant and allied themselves with us. I didn’t believe it at first. I thought maybe Command had fallen and now the Covies were just playing with us. But the ID challenge code was correct, and we were told to not fire upon any Elites coming our way.

It was pretty damn tense. They came from the north, weapons lowered, and their Commander (this Elite in silver and black amour) just said, “We’re here to join you.”

That was it.

Then the Beijing Garrison Commander, Colonel Xi Yuan hoped out of a Wraith. This little woman old enough to be my mother started barking out orders and coordinating a supply convoy. The Separatists formed a perimeter and gave us time to have some chow, use the toilet, and rearm. She then told us we were going on the offensive. Not just a counter-attack, but an actual offensive to retake territory, the first time in twenty years.

Since I was combat trained, I got to take part – mainly because there just wasn’t that many of us left. Earth would have to make do until reinforcements from the other colonies arrived.

The fight back to Shanghai was a slog; all those buildings we dropped became obstacles, and made it difficult for the tanks to get through. By the time we reached Shanghai, the Covenant was in full retreat. Intel said they were focusing on Africa, so we were given the order to mop up.

The fighting was fierce; I spent most of it treating the wounded just behind the frontlines. Generally speaking, I’d be a block away from the heavy fighting, patching up troops as best as I can, and triaging them.

Unfortunately, counter-attacks were frequent, and I would find myself fighting off waves of Grunts lead by a few Brutes. Luckily, I had two guardian angels in the form of Hunters. Those guns are damn loud, but to not be on the receiving end when one of those things goes off is something quite beautiful, especially when it brings a Covenant attack to a halt.

We retook Shanghai after a week of heavy fighting. No prisoners were taken; anything that wasn’t on our side was killed.

The remains of Covenant troops were literally bulldozed into craters and incinerated, while the bodies of UNSC troops, and civilians were interred in the open. I was placed on burial detail, where we took scans of the bodies, DNA samples and any form of identification that we could find. Then we would place it on a datachip, tag it on a bag, and send the body for cremation. The fucked up thing about it, was that most of the bodies had bite marks. The bruising around the wound would suggest that these people were eaten alive.

Shanghai probably smelt like death for days on end. Finally, I was rotated out and got to go on leave with Baron and Zhao. I was surprised that they were letting us go so soon, but I was so tired and hungry. Lived off on nothing but half eaten MRE’s since the Covenant attacked. We dropped off our equipment at an armoury, and then took a shower for the first time in weeks. We must’ve smelled like all kinds of hell, and the sad part was we didn’t even have any clothes to get changed into. We just stood under the faucets and dumped buckets of soap onto ourselves, then just dried ourselves out in under an engine – the sun had been blotted out by all the smog. I don’t think we ever got the smell of death and ash out of our clothes.

We caught a flight to Australia where the fighting had been minimal in the southern areas. The Covenant never made it to Tasmania, so that was where we went. Found this resort that was still open and booked an apartment suite for the three of us. We had a lot of hazard pay in our accounts, and after a few years of combat, I was happy to spend a little more money than I normally would. I’m still surprised that the banks were open, but being in Tasmania, it was almost like the war never happened.

The staff there didn’t ask where we’d come from, I think they could see it that we were just so tired. Even the locals seemed a bit wary of us when we went to buy some clothes and junk food.

We were standing at the cash register about to pay for the mountain of stuff we bought, when these kids runs up and tugs my uniform.

“How many did you kill?” he asked.

“How many?” another chimed in.

I stood there like a deer in headlights. I really couldn’t believe this was happening. I never ever thought I would be asked that, like that. Ever. It just seemed like something you never ask. But here this kid was asking how many I killed. In that moment, you could hear a pin drop, I felt all eyes look at me.

These people wanted to know what the fighting was like, but they were too afraid to ask. I didn’t even think before I opened my mouth, and I answered with, “Too many.”

At the time, I think I subconsciously included other human beings into my answer. I knew they meant Covenant, I mean, the kids were eleven or thereabouts, what would they know about the Insurrection?

A mother quickly comes by, and offers me an apology before taking her kids away. I told her it wasn’t a big deal.

54 Grunts, 8 Jackals, 5 Brutes, 1 Hunter, and at least 1 Innie. That was the number of confirmed kills across my three tours. It may seem like a lot, and deep down I’m even proud of that accomplishment, but it’s just a drop of water in comparison to the vast ocean of the Covenant numbers. The number of people I treated, that one I lost count. Would’ve been easier if the kid asked me that, but he was too young to have recognised the MARS Tab. Still I was a bit shaken up by it – it’s just an astounding thing to ask of anyone.

I turned back to the cashier, and found the store manager hovering over him. She gave me a discount and said, “Thank you for your service.”

That was fucking painful – a gut reaction more or less to this almost hollow phrase I’d heard so many times.

“Don’t mention it,” I deadpanned. I was too tired to even care about politeness.

“No, I really mean it,” she said. “You’re Langley Chen.”

She goes on to explain that if it wasn’t for me, she’d have lost her daughter on Ponte. That was a long time ago for me by that point. I thanked her for telling me, and that it was nice to know someone that had made it after all this time. It was the first time where a thank you didn’t feel forced for the sake of being morally conscious, it felt personal; it felt real.

When we returned back to the hotel, it was lights out. A lot of room service, a lot of sleeping, and a lot more eating. The food tasted wonderful, the bed was soft and firm, and it makes you question whether or not it was a smart idea to have signed up for so many tours. It was heavenly. When we were finally up for it, we left our room, and sent our family a message saying that we were okay.

A few days later, Earth was declared safe, and we were called back in to help with the aid missions, but it was more like digging out bodies and prepping them for burial.

I did this job for about a week when more burial details arrived on Earth. The UNSC then rotated me out to the Hereford Garrison with Baron, while Zhao was whisked off world again. So it’s back down to the two of us again. Britain suffered a few skirmishes, and was overall fine, which left me and Baron little to do.

I knew what would happen if we sat around for too long, so I suggested we train while we wait for orders to come down the pipeline. The training was nothing official, just a couple of SWORDs running us through the drills and teaching us a few tricks of the trade.

We did this for nearly three months, and then the Human-Covenant War was officially declared to be over. There was a lot of silence at first, people in the streets were already celebrating, but we were silent. I think I refused to believe that the war was over for at least two weeks because I was afraid that it wasn’t. It would just be too crushing for me, and I could say the same for everyone veteran.

It took a bit of time, but eventually we all accepted the war was over, and we breathed a little easier because of it. Still, there was a lot of fighting left to be done. The Covenant was not yet beaten, despite the fact the Master Chief and his lot took out their leadership.

Rumour had it that the Elites were gearing up for a war against the Brutes, and the UNSC would be supporting the Elites wherever they could.

Command was asking for volunteers, and despite everything Baron and I had been through, we signed up. I later learned that Zhao had signed on for another tour as well, and that we’d be assigned to Task Force Chaffee-4 as well as a few other guys from MARSSAP Class of 2548.

Once again, I was happy to be going back… and scared shitless. It’s the same thing I tell myself every time I ship out.

Having seen all that I’ve seen, if I am brutally honest with myself, I am not a violent person. I don’t pick fights. I don’t take enjoyment out of spilling blood, I may in the heat of battle, but there’s a gnawing emptiness afterwards. I take great joy in helping others, and I even get synthetic meat whenever I can. I’ve seen what war does to people, what it’s done to me. I’ve seen war rob children the privilege of growing old and turning them into killers. I’ve seen adults have their souls torn out of them, and despite all of this, I still love war.

Nevertheless, every time I’ve taken a life, I’d rather leave it behind me and get on with the day. Unfortunately, the human psyche is not always that forgiving, and each time I go to sleep, I’ll relive it.

Don’t buy into the bullshit that having someone like a spouse would take away the pain. That kind of love is a fairy-tale. The people I served alongside with, they tell me how they have to sleep in separate beds now because they thrash and scream so much at night. War is long and painful, why should recovery be any different?

I want to stress that the addiction I’ve been talking about this whole time is not a constant ecstasy that crazed war junkies get. Just as importantly, I don’t refer to war as some kind of strange nostalgia that calls you back.

Like I said before, as much as I love war, I hated it. As much as I miss war, I never want to see it again. My reasons for loving war is complex, so much so that even the reasons I’ve given so far feels like they haven’t hit it on the head.

Yes I love the thrill of combat, and at the same time, I get scared to the point my hands start shaking. War junkies don’t get scared shitless, they scream with laughter and then take trophies. Likewise, I don’t have the nostalgia of war, not old enough for that. But nostalgia is seeking the old glory, and there is no glory to be had in war. The only nostalgia I find myself wanting is the “me” before I volunteered.

The best reasoning I’ve seen so far is that our love of war, at least my love for it, is eclectic. It is the combination of the human experience, the desire to be a part of something greater, and to have purpose, something that suburbia can never offer. How many of us out there can call our neighbour a friend? I don’t even know mine, letter alone trust them to water my garden when I’m away.

War offers us discipline and cohesion, yet at the same time, it offers us madness and uncut chaotic freedom. It gives us security and direction, and the insatiable desire to rebel against it. War robs us of our innocence, our privilege to live in ignorant bliss, and instead sets us free to do as we please. It gives us purpose and conviction as well as primal freedom. War is bittersweet.

As grey as war is, it removes the menial ambiguity of civilian life and replaces it with a sublime clarity. You know what needs to be done if you meet a friend or foe, you know where they stand, that’s it. In ordinary life however, it’s difficult, though the stakes are lower. I’m going to know that the woman on my team has got my back when the fighting begins. What about if I meet a woman at a bar? Will she be someone who I can trust my life with? Or will she be someone who’ll run at the first sign of trouble and clear out my bank account?

We don’t want to say that we love war because to say so, would be to insult the core foundations of civilisation and the ethics of our society. War is conflict, and to love conflict is to slander the notion that democratic societies are based on the principle that we can live together despite our differences. To love war, is to love destruction, it is to revel in the destruction of the soul. To love war is shameful, for it makes us the demons that society hates. But to tell you the truth, those who truly love war unabashedly, they’re too long gone to care.

We were raised to believe that war has no place in a civilised world, that it is a desperate last resort, and a necessary evil which must be placed behind us. To love war, is to hold on to something toxic.

But like I said before, war is a natural discourse, that evolutionary imperative. War is death, and death is a part of life. As natural as our propensity for war is, so is our propensity for peace and cooperation. War is a terrible thing that tears our soul and crushes our morality, and to overcome war, to end war to survive, it goes to show how much we love life itself.

They say war is good for absolutely nothing, but war will always be with us. No matter how much we slander it, no matter how much we condemn it. Deep down, we all condone war. And for those like me who’ve seen it too much, we’ve grown to love it, and hate it with equal passion.

War collectively represents the human condition in its entirety. We’ve gone to war over the most just of causes such as to stem hateful ideologies. We’ve gone to war over power and resources. But we’ve also gone to war over Helen of Troy. World War I was caused by seminal events of tensions between nations which boiled over when a student shot an Archduke and his wife.

Life without death has no meaning, and civilisation has no meaning without war.

I would like to have had the strength and the wisdom to say that I’ve done enough, that I’ve done my part, and that it’s time to go. Unfortunately, it’s too late for me. Maybe one day, I’ll find that special someone who’ll make the mundane interesting again, someone who’ll understand, but my life is not a fairy tale. Odds are I’ll probably die because someone outsmarted me, and in my opinion, that’s a better way to go. I’d rather die with my boots on, than brain myself and hope that someone finds me before I decay.

To have what it takes to leave the military, I don’t think I have that strength. Veterans say that leaving war is hideously difficult. The transition into a life where you’re no longer living on the edge of a blade is damn near insurmountable. When you leave, the weight of what you’ve done will come crashing down. Ordinary life will never be enough, it’s trivial, it’s mundane, and it can’t offer that lethal addiction. The neighbours, the friends, and the family at the Sunday barbeque will never have the bond that you had with those in the same foxhole.

I remember what I said to Baron and Zhao when we were huddled off in some private corner at Liz’s baby shower.

One of my aunties came over and asked, “You have a girlfriend yet? Gwen’s going to need to have cousins soon.”

I just gave a polite laugh and answered, “When I’m ready.”

To which Zhao added, “When he’s retired.”

Maybe one day, I’ll truly grow sick of war, and wish for that quiet life with a white picket fence and two kids. I’ll take the kids to a theatre with my loving wife, and smile to myself and say that I’ve hit the jackpot. When that day comes, however, I don’t know if I’ll still be around.

**…**

_Out there, we’ve walked quite friendly up to Death;_  
Sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland,  
Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand.  
We’ve sniffed the green thick odour of his breath,  
Our eyes wept, but our courage didn’t write.  
He’s spat at us with bullets and he’s coughed  
Shrapnel. We chorused when he sang aloft;  
We whistled while he shaved us with his scythe.

 _Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!_  
We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.  
No soldier’s paid to kick against his powers.  
We laughed knowing that better men would come,  
And greater wars; when each proud fighter brags  
He wars on Death – for lives; not men – for flags.

**_-The Next War_ ** **by Wilfred Owen**


End file.
